


Where the Rain Can't Touch

by SunhatLlama



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rain, Too Many Beds, Valentine's Challenge, bad memories, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires) Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunhatLlama/pseuds/SunhatLlama
Summary: "What did you tell the innkeeper?" asked Porthos."All I told the man was that we needed a room for the night, nothing more or less," Athos replied, dumbfounded.XXXXXXWhen the weather brings bad memories for one of them, the others try their best to make it right. Will d'Artagnan finally conquer his demons, or will he fall victim to the shadows haunting his mind?
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère, d'Artagnan & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Where the Rain Can't Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a little oneshot for you all! This is a Valentine's Day Competition piece so it was absolutely rushed. It may not be my greatest piece of writing, but I really like how it turned out :)
> 
> NO there is no romance here, only platonic love.
> 
> I hope you like it!

The men were miserable.

They had left Paris on their mission three days before, leaving immediately from the garrison after Treville had sent them away. Their horses were packed to the brim with supplies, knowing that their luck was truly terrible when it came to simple missions.

But, to their surprise, no bandits attacked them, no rouge musketeers tried to kill them, and no Spanish soldiers came to wish them harm.

Instead, they were blessed with rain. An unending torrent of wind and water, soaking their clothes as well as their moods. Ironically, their luck still found a way to make their lives miserable.

Especially for d"Artagnan.

It was on rainy days that d'Artagnan scorned his stubborn pride for the fact that he refused to buy a hat. The others all owned one, but he hadn't gotten around to it. The unending rain spattered into his eyes, soaked his hair, and drilled into the top of his skull, each droplet reminding him of his lack of forethought.

And it was especially on rainy days that d'Artagnan felt the loss of his father the most.

The four musketeers rode on through the growing puddles, each silent, but aware that their luck could turn at any moment. They had been riding for three days in the unending rain, each of their gazes focused on their surroundings, and their thoughts only concentrated on the mission.

Or at least, that's what d'Artagnan thought.

He himself couldn't see very far in front of him, his wet mop of hair blocking the way, and his mind was certainly not at its tip-top awareness. They plodded through the met mud, the forest growing sodden. The horses were having difficulty moving quicker through the sludge, so they kept their pace to a walk, trying not to sigh too heavily when that meant an extended amount of time traveling through the rain.

D'Artagnan assumed the others were focused on the mission at hand, as they usually were, but he himself felt his energy flagging. Every pound of his horse's feet on the ground sent a shiver through his body, the hooves hitting the wet ground too similar to the day his father died. Every drop in his eyes blurred his vision, making his memories swim before him, the prone form of the last family member he had left bleeding out on the ground the only thing he could see.

He shut his eyes, trying to reign in the memories. _This is not real._

D'Artagnan sucked in a shaky breath before opening his eyes again, noticing that the forest had grown darker. He must have blacked out for a short while, for he didn't remember it being that late. D'Artagnan shook his head—he couldn't let that happen again. It was his duty to stay alert and complete the mission without care for his personal matters. He couldn't bear it if his friends were hurt because he was too caught up in his memories.

Athos' voice knocked him from his thoughts. "We will stop here for the night. No need to continue forward if we can't see where we are going." The man nodded towards them, eyeing the darkening sky.

It was then that d'Artagnan noticed that they were in a small town. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos all dismounted and led their horses towards the inn, d'Artagnan following in their stead, but staying back a few paces.

D'Artagnan felt the tension leave his body, relieved that they were going to rest for the night. He needed a little time to collect himself before he fell apart completely in front of the others. Weakness during a mission was not something that he would let himself show; his image in the eyes of his friends more important than anything else.

* * *

Athos was concerned.

They had been riding for three days now, on a mission to deliver a letter for the King. It should have been simple, easy, but then the rain started. They were all completely soaked, and if it weren't early summer, they would all be susceptible to hypothermia and illness. As it was, that wasn't what concerned him at the moment

It was d'Artagnan.

The young man has retreated into himself more and more as the days went by until he seemed barely aware of his surroundings. At first, he had thought that the lad was sick, but he dismissed that idea when he looked into d'Artagnan's eyes. All he saw was clouded, pain glossed eyes; a sight he saw frequently in his own mirror. Athos' eyes widened in understanding—

Rain.

The boy's father had been murdered in the rain.

Athos internally berated himself, he should have realized sooner that the weather would have a negative impact on their Gascon.

Knowing that any wrong move would make the lad retreat even further into his memories, Athos decided to keep a close eye on the man until they reached the nearest town. There was no way that Athos was going to let d'Artagnan deal with his grief alone, and definitely not on the road.

Athos watched as d'Artagnan stared lazily ahead, clearly trying his hardest to stay aware, but failing as each raindrop shattered his mask a little further. At this point, concern and empathy twisted his guts painfully and he was aware that a grimace had swarmed his face. He should have caught d'Artagnan's distress sooner, but even as he began to blame himself, he knew that the Gascon was very good at hiding his injuries when he wanted to.

He had once told the boy that they were more alike than d'Artagnan thought, and Athos had no idea how much truth was in those words until now.

XXXXXX

When they reached the next town, the sky had darkened and the stars started to dot the shadowed overhead. One look behind him was all it took to set his decision in stone. The lad was too pale for Athos' liking, and he was sure that the other two had noticed it as well. Knowing Aramis, the man was going to tell Athos that they should stop.

"We will stop here for the night. No need to continue forward if we can't see where we are going." Athos dismounted from his horse, turning towards Aramis, anticipating the coming conversation.

The Spaniard spoke softly. "I'm worried—"

"About d'Artagnan?"

He looked surprised for a moment but continued on. "Yes, I think there is something he isn't telling us."

They both turned their heads over their shoulders to see d'Artagnan dismount, cringing when the lad nearly collapsed, but Porthos managed to put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Athos and Aramis both heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the two talking.

Athos spoke again, leading them towards the inn nearby, all the while out of range of d'Artagnan's earshot. "I think the rain is bringing bad memories back."

The man inhaled sharply. "Mon Dieu, I nearly forgot." Aramis paled, obviously regretting the lack of realization.

"It is the reason I called for us to stop here."

Aramis' face lit up. "I was wondering why we would stop, there is still some light left." The man smirked, raising his eyebrows at him.

All Athos could do was mock glare at him back. "Go and make sure d'Artagnan doesn't collapse on the way."

Aramis turned back to look at d'Artagnan's pale complexion, then nodded and slowed down his pace until he was on d'Artagnan's right. Porthos stood on the left, giving them both a thankful look.

Smiling, Athos stepped into the inn, the weary floorboards creaking under his weight. The building was not the greatest inn he had seen, with its quaint size and pitiful insulation, but it would have to do. Any roof over their heads was better than the night sky. There was only so much the tree's canopy could block.

He turned to the innkeeper, letting his diplomatic side shine through, a disarming smile taking a hold. "I and my three companions would like a room for the night."

The innkeeper looked at him strangely, eyes skirting over the Musketeer pauldron adorning his shoulder, and then his eyes flew wide. "Y-yes Monsieur, right away." The man stumbled towards his hanging keys, then started walking up the stairs to his left.

Athos watched, confused as to the man's behavior, but shrugged it off when he saw his brothers enter the building, d'Artagnan's state more important than the strange innkeeper.

The lad was soaked, as they all were, but the young man's eyes still appeared haunted, not that he was surprised. There was not much that could cure the horrors that plagued d'Artagnan's mind. Athos wished he could destroy all of his Gascon's nightmares, the memories that followed him, but alas, he could not. The lad was doomed to have them, just as all four of them were. Aramis with Savoy, Porthos with his upbringing, and Athos with his wife and brother. The four made quite a team.

"I wonder if they're serving mutton stew...I'm starvin' Pothos looked around, sniffing in.

Aramis swung his head around, peering at the small crowd in the small tavern-like section of the inn. "I believe you are out of luck, my friend." He pointed towards a young lady off to the side. "Rabbit stew."

Porthos groaned, head hanging in defeat. "Of course."

D'Artagnan remained ever silent, not even raising his head at his brothers' antics.

Athos saw them both send their gazes towards him, seemingly unhappy, before turning their attention back to d'Artagnan. "Let's go to the room, then? We can get food after we settle in," he said, eyeing the young man.

Both Aramis and Porthos nodded, dragging the unresponsive Gascon behind them.

XXXXXX

D'Artagnan didn't know what to say. When they had entered their room for the night, they had not expected the sight they saw.

There were ten beds lined up, five on each wall.

Porthos was the first to speak. "Athos, there are too many beds."

"What do you mean there are too many beds?" Athos shoved his way through his three brothers, stepping into the room before stopping, eyes opening wide.

Aramis broke the silence. "What made the innkeeper think we needed ten beds?"

D'Artagnan and Porthos both shrugged, but they all turned to Athos, eyebrows raised.

"What did you tell the innkeeper?" asked Porthos.

"All I told the man was that we needed a room for the night, nothing more or less," he replied, dumbfounded.

"Maybe he thought Porthos would need them all," Armais jested before yelping in surprise when the man cuffed on the head.

Athos sighed, stepping further into the room, d'Artagnan following him. D'Artagnan claimed a bed in the middle on the right, placing his weapons and saddlebags there for the time being. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for the next week, hopefully leaving his painful memories behind—but he knew that couldn't happen, _wouldn't_ happen.

He felt a pit roll through his guts and he felt the sudden need for fresh air. "I'll be back—" he cut off suddenly and rushed out the door and down the stairs, opening the door as quickly as he dared. He rushed to the grassy field behind the inn and hid behind a tree, taking in quick, sharp breaths. Outside. Fresh air. He let himself soak up the smells of the outdoors, vaguely aware of the sound of a door closing. Pine needles, moist dirt. Rain.

Rain. It was raining.

Blood spreading, red rivulets streaming into the growing pool of water below—his father cold against him—eyes bloodshot—rain.

Athos, blood pouring around the blade that skewered his stomach—falling to the ground with a thud. Rain pouring, soaking his dark curls. Crimson. Death.

Rain.

Aramis, frozen, cold, wet. Rosary trapped in his stiff fist. Pulse, gone. Rain. It was raining. Water dripped down his frosted hairs, mixing with the pool of tears.

Rain.

Porthos, hole in his head, brains splattered against the forest landscape. Eyes facing the sky—the clouded sky. Water fell, crashing against the man's blood-stained skin. Gore soaking into the Earth. Soaked.

A drop of water fell from the needles above him and crashed onto d'Artagnan's head.

Heat rushed to his mouth, and before he knew it, he was throwing up the meager lunch he had eaten. He gagged, spitting out the leftover bile, and leaned back on the tree, taking more strained breaths as he tried to recover from puking his guts out. His chest constricted. He couldn't take in enough air—he clawed against his chest.

Before he realized what was happening, a strong pressure appeared on his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos. It was Athos. The man looked terrified.

D'Artagnan tried to answer, but his sight was quickly tunneling. He stared into Athos' eyes as he fought to breathe. The world began to spin—everything was tilting.

"D'Artagnan you need to regulate your breathing." The elder man grabbed a hold of d'Artagnan's hand and placed it on his own chest. "Here? Follow my breathing."

D'Artagnan felt the rise and fall of Athos' breaths and tried to mimic his mentor, but his chest stuttered and cried a sound of protest through his clenched jaw, the action hurting him.

Rain.

"It's okay, you're okay."

Pain lanced through his skull, the rain won't stop—

"Hey!" Athos' authoritative voice pulled him back. "Focus on me." His words were spoken softly."

D'Artagnan tried again. He had to try for Athos. His chest expanded along with Athos' more exaggerated ones, each time the action becoming a little easier. He sat, only focused on Athos, his vision clearing up with every successful exhale.

At some point, Athos was content that d'Artagnan could breathe on his own and leaned back against the tree with him, keeping constant contact with him. d'Artagnan took a couple of shaky inhales, then spoke.

"T-Thanks, Athos," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

The man didn't say anything, but d'Artagnan felt his grip tighten on his arm.

They sat like that for some time. He didn't know how long, but the rain had stopped its torment, letting them finally rest. The environment finally swept into view. Crickets began to chirp, and he swore he heard the distant screech of an owl. There were fireflies dancing through the blades of grass. D'Artagnan spared a glance behind him, realizing that they were sitting off to the side of the inn, right where he was before. For some odd reason, he felt as though they had traveled a far distance. He let out a deep breath of relief.

"Do you wanna head back inside now?"

D'Artagnan turned to look at his mentor, his body trembling with fatigue, and nodded.

XXXXXX

By the time they reached their room, Athos was practically carrying d'Artagnan, dragging his weight along with him up the stairs. When they entered, there were no outrageous bellows, no stern lectures. Just soft smiles and warm hands.

The next thing he knew, he was laying down in a bed, stripped of his soaked outerwear, and he instantly curled up within the blankets feeling the past three day's stress catching up with his body. He was just about to drift off when he felt an arm tug him softly towards the side, the limb curling over his torso and pulling him into an embrace. The distinct smell of Athos wafted over him, a familiar scent that brought a smile to his face. Two more dips in the bed indicated what he knew was going to happen, the other two had joined them.

Vaguely, he realized that they had most likely moved three of the beds together to fit them all and he silently thanked the strange innkeeper for the extra beds.

D'Artagnan let himself drift off, his three brothers by his side, their warmth seeping into him. He smiled as he fell into a deep sleep, finally feeling safe and content.

The rain couldn't hurt him while his brothers were by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy late Valentine's Day!


End file.
